


slipping through my hands

by chryysaskk



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (i do), Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what else to tag, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved, enjoy my self-indulgent 7k words of touching as a love (or maybe death) language, muahaha, nothing explicit don't worry, they're just two angsty pining balls of mess, to be clear they don't have a c l u e, will there be a kiss? who the fuck knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chryysaskk/pseuds/chryysaskk
Summary: One does not crave one's touch until they're deprived of it; unless it burns.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 193





	slipping through my hands

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [ускользая из моих рук](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26006602) by [tunnenbery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunnenbery/pseuds/tunnenbery)



> i think this is one of my good fics but i guarantee nothing, i just know it took me one month and a half to get it to the surface but i guess my touch-starved inner self is quite satisfied.  
> anyway a huge thanks to my friend iro for beta reading, otherwise jaskier's blue eyes would end up an infuriating and quite unforgettable sight after a while (yes it was _that_ bad).  
> finally i want you to know i really tried _so_ hard to come up with a proper title but since im an unoriginal piece of shit, title is from lover, please stay by nothing but thieves.
> 
> so that's it i hope you enjoy and i would wholeheartedly appreciate kudos or a comment if you reach the end <3

The inn was crowded. Not an unusual state for an inn to be, it was Vizima after all; in fact, Geralt would say it wasn't crowded enough for an inn in the first neighbourhood of the city. People were bumping on each other at the bar and the tables, they had barely managed to get a room thanks to a patch of ghouls Geralt had killed in the graveyard just out of the city and even that was given with the visible unwillingness of the innkeeper who had already given away his precious coin. And yet here they were, Jaskier singing and strolling between the tables, undaunted by the crowd yet mostly hidden behind it, and Geralt wavering between letting more than two people sit at their table or ruining his so graciously restored reputation of the past ten years or so. The minutes passing and the not so appealing faces of the people approaching the table had him inclining to the second option.

And as if this was not enough already, summer had decided to grace them with one of its hottest days, which had Geralt dripping with sweat and thanking the gods for at least sitting close to the window. The rest of the crowd though, seeming plastered on each other, didn't seem to witness any of it. Geralt shook his head. He really didn't understand this human urge of socializing sometimes.

And Jaskier was not an exception, but he knew better than trying to understand every aspect of the bard's character, as he was far past behind realizing the man was unpredictable. He let a silent huff escape his lips at the thought which he hid behind his tankard of ale. Unpredictable, yes, not just in the human characteristics of him though. He was unpredictable when it came to words. To feelings. So that Geralt found himself more than once trying to hold back a smile or the urge to grab him and hold him in his arms forever. More than once and quite more often in the past few months. And he also knew better than to attribute the feeling to his human instincts trying to socialize.

Still, as his eye caught Jaskier talking fondly to a couple of women across the room, he decided some thoughts are better kept to himself, or ambitiously not kept at all. So he took a sip again and averted his look, forcing his hearing to shift focus to the loud crowd of the inn.

A wise decision, one would say.

They would be wrong.

_Excuse me, sir, I don't…_

Ah. Had Jaskier already managed to get in someone's pants or did he owe an enraged spouse since last time? Geralt sighed and searched for the bard with his look among the crowd, but once again, drunkards and people who hadn't found a place to sit were blocking his vision. And the last thing he wanted was to dive in a sea of warm and sweaty bodies. He grunted.

_I don't really want… Ah, could you please stop… Don't touch me!_

Oh.

Any previous hesitation escaped Geralt as he rushed to get up and push between people to reach Jaskier, feeling a weight of increasing worry and rage on his chest. How dare they touch someone without their consent, but most importantly, how dare they touch _Jaskier_ without his consent? He huffed as he moved another man aside and spotted the bard – or actually, his red doublet, since he was hidden behind a body – pinned against the wall with a man standing, or better, leaning on him uncouthly. His lute was set aside as he was trying to push the man away from him stuttering. He smelled of fear.

"Please, don't – Ah, fuck!" The man's hand trailed on Jaskier's lower body but Geralt didn't bother listening to what he was muttering as he grabbed him from the collar and dragged him away, standing in the way between him and Jaskier. The bard gasped in relief.

Geralt growled when he saw the man raising his eyebrows mockingly. "He told you to stop."

"And you're his mother or his whore?" The man laughed as Geralt gripped his neckband but didn't seem startled at all.

"I would phrase it as not wanting strangers to touch my stuff," the witcher snarled in a low, hoarse voice that cut the man's laughter but still a smug smile was curving his lips.

"As you wish, then."  
  
If Geralt had not been burning with rage and hadn't focused his attention solely on shoving the man away with a violent push, he might have felt his medallion vibrating or heard Jaskier's soft gasp behind him. But he didn't. The man cleared his throat and fixed his clothes without taking his eyes off him. Then he grinned malevolently.

"It's quite charming, you know, since you don't touch your own stuff either."

"Get the fuck out of here!"

Geralt rushed towards him but the man needed no more threat to make him flee, closing the door behind him with the smile still not escaping his lips. Geralt then glared at the crowd around. They had been silent until then, watching the scene, but as soon as the door was closed and their eyes met the witcher's look, they returned to talking and shouting, forgetting even about what had happened. Suddenly the room was too hot.

"Geralt…"

The witcher turned around and approached Jaskier who was leaning against the wall and panting, his cheeks painted pink. He raised a hand as if to rest it on the bard's shoulder, but he regretted it, as though afraid and the hand fell limp on his side. Instead, he tilted his head. "Are you okay?"

Jaskier seemed to doze out for a second but then raised his head and smiled faintly. "Yeah, I just…" He paused, thinking of the nauseous urge he'd felt earlier that would have him vomiting if it wasn't for Geralt standing in front of him. Still, he saw Geralt raising his eyebrows expectantly, his eyes full of concern and his heart warmed again at the sight. It had probably been the shock. He shook his head and straightened himself. "I'm okay, yes."

Geralt nodded, the heat of rage still burning inside him but subsiding as he saw Jaskier's blue eyes shining again. Then a lump came up his throat and a sudden realization blurred his thoughts with doubt. "Does this–" he gestured slightly at the door "–happen often?"

Jaskier made to walk towards the nearest table where his lute was left but stopped momentarily and glanced at Geralt with a hesitant look. He cleared his throat. "Often enough." Then he smiled shortly and turned away.

Geralt remained still for some seconds, processing what he'd heard. Gods. And he hadn't been there the times before.

A long sigh escaped his lips and he relaxed his shoulders as he saw Jaskier returning to his previous company and laughing charmingly with the women again, but his fists remained clenched. Funny, he never thought such a sight would make him relax and not want to drag Jaskier immediately up to their room, but destiny fucked with him daily so it was barely a surprise. He settled to being just content to see the bard enjoying himself from afar and hoping, _wishing_ , he would one day touch him in the way his hands, rough by the sword's hilt and blood-painted, had never touched anyone before.

He ignored the thought of that bastard being right about one thing and headed back towards their table, the roaring of the crowd invading his ears once again.

_Will you not sing us more about terrifying monsters and undying love, dear Jaskier?_

_Oh, but my sweetest Sabrina, what made you think I would stop–_

He heard a stifled cry and turned his head abruptly to see Jaskier letting go of a maid's hand with a flounce and stepping back, his face distorted in an expression of pain and terror. Geralt's heart fluttered and he took a step forwards before stopping. That scent again. Fear. It was not right. Jaskier remained frozen for some moments and then raised his head, looking at the people around him staring and the maid frowning in confusion. He breathed shakily.

"I…" He stared speechless at his hand and then glanced at Geralt with the corner of his eye. He shook his head. "E-Excuse me…"

Before Geralt had managed to approach he had disappeared behind the door, leaving him stumbling between the patrons to reach him. The maid still stood behind and her expression probably wasn't that of one who had really excused anything. But she could bother all she wanted. Geralt could sense the air vibrating around him before he even opened the door and stepped outside the inn, the last rays of the sun lighting the street where he saw Jaskier standing, still like a statue, his back turned to him. He swallowed.

"Jaskier?"  
  
No answer. He clenched his fists and approached with slow steps. A sound resembling a whine escaped the bard's chest. He tilted his head in confusion, in concern and raised his hand, his fingers twitching. "Is everything–"

"No, _don't_ –" A cry escaped Jaskier's lips as he felt Geralt's hand on his arm and withdrew jerkily from him, wrapping his hands around himself as if in defence. He saw Geralt's eyes darkening. His voice quivered in his throat. "Don't… touch me."

Geralt realized his hand was still raised, as though trying to grip thin air, so he lowered it, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He didn't speak for some moments, his look captured by Jaskier's eyes watering as his body curved slightly, his hands folded on his chest. Then his medallion vibrated again, and this time he noticed as he looked around alerted, searching with his eyes for something he wouldn't find, because it was there no more. He knew it had vanished, he saw the glow on the wall two buildings away, just like he knew that, even if he hated portals, he would have jumped into this one without wasting a second, only if it wasn't already deactivated. He ran towards the glow and stood in front of the wall, lingering for a second before growling a curse or ten and turning again to the bard.

"Show me…" Again he thought of raising his hand, but then he saw Jaskier taking a step backwards, as if in fear, and he stopped in his tracks with a huff. He wouldn't touch him, he never did and he didn't understand why that particular desire decided to overwhelm him now, the least appropriate time. He snorted and gestured to Jaskier's folded arms. "Show me your hand."  
  
Jaskier hesitated for a moment, for the first time feeling he couldn't trust even himself. Then he unfolded his arms, trembling almost, and showed Geralt the hand which he'd touched the maid with. He showed it and then averted his look, not because it looked that terrible, but because he knew the pain he felt numbing his whole arm emanated from the red mark burning his skin more with every passing second.

He saw Geralt approaching and prevented himself just in time from instinctively stepping backwards. If there was one person he shouldn't be afraid of, it was Geralt. Especially when it came to touching.

Geralt nervously kept his hands on his sides and examined the mark. It looked like a burn; it was a burn. As if the bard had put his hand in the fire. "Fuck." He shook his head and then looked away, to the wall the portal had previously been. "Fucking bastard." He glanced at Jaskier who waited frozen, grunted and rushed towards the inn.

Jaskier waited for a couple of seconds and then sighed, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Great. Fucking splendid. That's what he needed right now. Avoiding touching anyone for the gods knew how long. He took a look at his hand, then felt his arm burning too, right where Geralt had touched him. He raised a hand to cover the burn under his clothes. Geralt had decided a perfect time to start touching him. He scoffed. At least his own touch didn't burn.

_I would phrase it as not wanting strangers to touch my stuff._

_His_ stuff? Jaskier could swear he hadn't missed any episodes and yet it warmed his heart, even if Geralt had shrunk his whole existence to _stuff_. He almost laughed at himself. No, he wished for too much, too desperate. Geralt was not good with words, he knew. It had just been the heat of the moment.

He started as Geralt exited the inn again with a frustrated huff and passed before him. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Where–"

"There's a healer down the street."

He didn't bother asking more questions. He just followed.

  
  


~~

  
  
"Getting into trouble with a mage, a wise decision, well done."

The healer shook her head with a giggle as she searched between a collection of herbs on the counter, making Geralt grunt behind her. Jaskier stepped out of her way a bit less graciously than he would if he wasn't sweating with fear of being touched. He swallowed.

"Is it bad?"

The woman looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Of course it's bad, it's a curse." She smiled at the bard's darkened eyes. "It seems your friend is not really capable with words," she pointed at Geralt and Jaskier let out a small chuckle that made the witcher glare at him, but with no result.

Jaskier folded his arms on his chest and shrugged. "Eloquence is not his strong part, truth be told. Oh," he shook his head when Geralt hummed at him, angrily as he concluded, "oh, don't give me that look, Geralt, this isn't in any way your fault but you have to choose your words better."

The healer cleared her throat and approached them with a vase in her hand. "Nothing permanent thankfully, your mage just wanted to have fun. In one week or so it will pass. Apply this," she carefully handed Jaskier the vase so as not to touch him, "where the burns are. And until then, no crowds and physical contact with anyone."

Geralt huffed and before he managed to think about it, the words escaped his mouth arbitrarily. "He's only going to be with me anyway."

Silence fell for a couple of seconds, as though after a thunder, and he swallowed hard, glancing at Jaskier with the corner of his eye. The bard didn't speak, but he was almost certain he discerned a faint smile on his lips. A bitter one.

The healer raised her eyebrows as she looked at them and giggled again. "I'm counting on that. On your way now, it's already late." She opened the door for Geralt to exit and Jaskier followed, glimpsing at her one last time. She swallowed and nodded slightly in encouragement. Then she sighed and closed the door.

  
  


~~

  
  
It was already past midnight when they laid on their bedrolls. One week away from people meant they couldn't sleep in an inn, especially in Vizima where every place was full of people. So not only did they have to sleep on the ground but also circle the city without passing through it. It had been a disappointment for Jaskier. Although he travelled with Geralt throughout summer, he couldn't ever say no to people and civilization. Yet he didn't say a word. It wouldn't change anything anyway.

So they lay there as if they were going to sleep, as if both of them didn't roll on the bedrolls ten times at least to end up on their backs staring at the sky. They were silent. There were some times where the silence between them was a comfortable one, where Geralt would have served as a good listener to a previous ramble or song and Jaskier would have placed his lute aside pleased and would have remained quiet, or hum for a bit until he was too tired to stay awake longer. At the moment, though, the silence between them was not, in any way or form, comfortable. Jaskier felt the need to speak as if he hadn't spoken all day, yet he still said nothing, because it was one of those rare moments of his short life when he didn't actually know what to say. He snorted silently and glanced at Geralt lying beside him. The witcher seemed content, or unbothered at least, and although that never prevented him from starting a conversation, even one-sided, now he hesitated as if he was afraid Geralt would snap at him for daring to speak. As if it was his fault.

"Does it hurt?"

He started and looked at the witcher again in surprise. For a moment he was too taken aback by Geralt's initiative to start a conversation that he didn't realize what he was talking about. "What?"

Geralt turned his head to stare at him, his eyes glowing under the moonlight. "Your hand, does it hurt?" His voice was low and, to Jaskier's greater surprise, softer than he'd probably ever head it.

"Oh," he said, as though he hadn't understood the first time, and met Geralt's gaze that made him shiver. He shook his head and raised his hand, examining it. "It does a bit, yeah. But," he smiled faintly, "the salve of the healer relieved a good amount of the pain."

Geralt hummed and, letting his look linger a little longer on the bard, averted his eyes again to look at the sky. He was still angry, of course, that damned mage hadn't only harassed Jaskier but also thrown a curse on him, just because he was stopped. Just because Geralt had decided to use the wrong words. No, anger had retreated now, but what took its place was guilt, guilt that increased each time he looked into those eyes that drowned him in their sea and saw a bit of their brightness shaded under the veil of discomfort. He wanted to convince himself it was only because of the pain. Yet he failed. Because he knew that this veil had only been more visible after they left the healer's house. Jaskier was afraid, of course he was. He was a spontaneous person, unpredictable, even with Geralt when he patted his shoulder or held his arm. That kind of touching was unpredictable for Geralt. So he understood, he knew that the bard should now hold himself back, and he knew he didn't like it at all. Still, there was also something else. Something he couldn't quite get a grip of.

_He's only going to be with me anyway._

Jaskier was afraid, yes. But it seemed to Geralt he was also saddened, as if what he the witcher had said then wasn't meant to be spoken. He had regretted saying it, he before everyone else craved that touch. But he couldn't tell about Jaskier. As if he was afraid of touching him, but also… as if he wanted it too.

"At least it's not going take long." Jaskier sighed after a couple of minutes and raised his eyebrows. "It will be easy, one week with you." He chuckled, he'd meant to be funny, yet he sounded bitter.

Geralt might have kept his mouth shut at that if he was not a complete idiot. "Yeah, after a week you can return to all your flirting and the likes."

What the fuck.

He might have winced if he didn't know to restrain himself.

What. The fuck. He seriously thought about never speaking again, ever. He shouldn't be allowed to. It resulted in chaos most times. And he should be the last person to say such a thing. Then he realized.

Jealous. He was jealous.

Ah, if this was not his old friend, fucking imprudence.

He glanced at Jaskier as if with his look he would turn what he had said into a joke. But he saw Jaskier's eyes darkening even more, and although he still couldn't understand why, he so hated that sight. The bard chuckled humorlessly and shook his head.

"Yeah…" He swallowed. He knew he shouldn't be surprised; still, his heart missed a beat. Not the first time. Definitely not the last. He looked at Geralt once more, but his vision was too blurred to discern any sign of joking on him. He smiled though, he always did. "Goodnight, Geralt."

Then he turned his back and, just before he closed his eyes, he heard Geralt snorting, and if he himself was not a fool, he would guess the witcher had immediately regretted what he'd said. He was, however, a fool.

He slept a couple of minutes later.

  
  


~~

  
  


"FUCK!"  
  
The witcher's cry made Jaskier flinch, curled to himself behind a tree and breathless, and he pondered on the urge of moving to see what had made Geralt scream with what sounded to him like pain. He could hear the wargs roaring behind him, probably at a safe distance now, but the shock of coming face to face with one and barely escaping before it shredded him whole still had him shaking with terror. He tried to listen to what was happening over the deafening sound of his heart thumping inside his chest and his breath coming hitched and hoarse out of his lungs. He heard the sword blade whipping the air and tearing bloody flesh apart. A high-pitched wail echoed in the forest. He shivered.  
  
And then silence. He would describe it dead if he was in the mood of joking. Yet the fact that it was actually deadly silent made his heart jerk with fear and he shifted on his seat, still trembling, his head popping out behind the tree trunk. It seemed to him everything had gone still, even the tree leaves that previously rustled with the night breeze. Everything except for a dark figure, and that he realized was not really moving, apart from the heavy breathing that made its shoulders go up and down in torturous groans. Something liquid was dripping on the ground. He waited one second longer, to make sure every warg was dead. Then he rose on his feet, slightly leaning himself on the trunk. His voice sounded barely like a whisper.  
  
"Geralt?"  
  
He had the impression that Geralt turned his body slightly at the sound of his name. Yes, that's what he'd thought for a moment. But then the witcher's shoulders slumped, his knees bent, and he collapsed face forward on the muddy ground. A cry was heard.  
  
Jaskier didn't realize how quickly he found himself kneeled beside him. Panic had blurred his mind for a moment and they were far past the first time this happened, but honestly only he knew how his heart forgot to beat every time he found Geralt wounded on the verge of unconsciousness.  
  
He wasn't thinking.  
  
So he grabbed Geralt's shoulders and rolled him over. And then screamed.  
  
Not because Geralt was in a miserable state, it was not the first time either and if he thought about it, he'd seen the witcher worse. No, what made him scream in agony was the fact that he thought none of his hands and although a week had almost passed, he felt pain overwhelming his body for a couple of seconds, making his spine curve, to retreat after just on his hands. His arms went numb. He gasped, trying to regain his breath, then looked at his hands going red like fire. And then another groan from Geralt brought him back to reality and he turned at him to see his golden eyes drained under his quickly lowering eyelids. He shook his head.  
  
"No, no, no, Geralt you can't do this now, I can't…" He made to touch the witcher's face but his hands hovered inches away from his face as he desperately searched for a way to bring him back. "Fuck, Geralt, don't you dare, don't fucking close your eyes – Ah, fuck!"  
  
He threw his head back in a resigned sigh as Geralt grunted one last time and then went limp, depriving the bard of any hope of him getting back up on his own. Jaskier looked at him again without moving, feeling his hands trembling as he drew them on his thighs. He swallowed, tried to persuade himself he would find a solution. Yet he couldn't. The city was miles away and he had no intention of leaving Geralt here alone. Roach was tethered on a tree in the clearing they'd stopped for the night, not so far away from here, but far enough for him to carry the witcher there. He snorted and hid his face in his hands, ignoring the mud dirtying them. A sound like a sob escaped his lips.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck…"  
  
There was no other way, he knew. And he'd better accept it before it was late. He glanced at Geralt once more, ran his hands through his hair, closed his eyes and sighed. _Okay. It's going to be okay._ He cleared his throat, bit his lips and lowered his body, gripping Geralt's arm and throwing it around his shoulders. He stifled a cry, took a deep breath. Wrapped his arm around Geralt's waist and put his feet on the ground. Geralt was heavy, leaning on the right side of Jaskier's body, burning him, making him want to scream and curl around himself. Instead, he groaned, his heart almost stopping. He stood there for a moment, literally feeling like he was being burned by fire, resisting the urge to fall with all the strength of him. He huffed, then held his breath. _Okay. One step at a time.  
  
It's okay. It's okay._  
  
It was okay with every step. Even if he sometimes forgot to hold back a cry, or a whine. Even if when he held them back he bit his lip so hard it bled. Even if the tears burning his eyes competed with the burns on his skin. Even if his knees buckled and he stumbled to the ground now and then, but didn't dare to think of stopping or detaching Geralt's body from his, not even for a second, because he knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to get back up. Even if the pain grew so given and familiar that he almost bore with it. Even if he sobbed.  
  
_It's okay. It's okay._  
  
It was okay.

  
  


~~

  
  


He all but lowered Geralt gently on the ground when he reached the clearing and, feeling his body free of the weight and the burning, he let out a cry and fell on his knees. His chest was moving with difficulty. A neigh made him raise his head weakly and he saw Roach, still tied on the tree, stomping her hooves on the ground. He huffed.  
  
"Yeah, I know, just…" He closed his eyes and swept back the hair falling on his forehead, feeling his body aching with every move. Roach lowered her head snorting. He swallowed. "Just let me take a breath…"  
  
He was genuinely surprised to hear the sound of a stream nearby over the whistling in his ears of what were probably the sobs caught up in his throat. He turned and looked at Geralt still lying unconscious beside him. He realized he couldn't discern the wound under the mud covering it and the bleeding almost creating a pool under his body. He had to clean him.  
  
The thought of fainting on the spot was not making things easier. His whole body was almost numb, he thought he felt the burns reaching his bones. He didn't want to think of facing himself in a mirror at the moment. Tears burned down his cheeks, or maybe it was the mark from the moment he'd fallen on the witcher's shoulder as he carried him, he couldn't tell anymore. It didn't make any difference anyway. He would have already collapsed under the pain if it wasn't for Geralt. But he knew he couldn't leave him now. He couldn't give up yet.  
  
So he sighed, gathered all of his strength and once more, after what felt hundreds of times, he stood on his feet. The trees swirled slightly around him. He swayed and shook his head. He could do this.  
  
He approached Roach with slow steps and gently stroked her mane as he searched in the saddlebags for bandages and white cloths that made him thank the gods he didn't have to tear any of his shirts to clean Geralt. Then he limped to the stream a few meters away, doing his best to ignore urge of his knees to give in once more, which increased with every step.  
  
The moment his hands sunk in the cold water, he let a sob escape his lips. If he lasted for longer than he expected, he'd definitely take a full dive in here. It didn't relieve the pain, just the burning. Even that was enough. He still had the vase of the healer.  
  
The wet cloth removed the mud from most of Geralt's body to reveal the bite of a warg that had dragged his teeth across his waist; it probably had been pulled violently during its attempt to take its portion. The sight of oozing blood made Jaskier hiss, and he wiped it away with the last remains of clean cloth. Then he swallowed.  
  
He knew what came next.  
  
Of course he did.  
  
He took the vase with Geralt's salve and dipped his fingers in it. Took a deep breath that he didn't actually release. Then applied the salve.  
  
If he was not a stubborn man, this would have probably been the ultimate wave of pain that knocked him out of consciousness. However, he was rather stubborn, either that or his love for Geralt was too much for him to leave his work unfinished. He didn't cry, even though tears were hanging on the edges of his eyes. He didn't scream, even though the sobs were choking him mercilessly. He just massaged the salve on the wound, trying not to lose grasp of what moving his hands actually felt like, and then rolled Geralt on his side to wrap a bandage around him.  
  
Now he was finished.  
  
He took a deep, whimpering breath, and even that burned him now. Maybe the burning had indeed reached his bones and he found himself caring probably less than he should. But he didn't have the courage to even consider moving. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. His skin felt foreign on him as if he was covered by the blankets of a married woman that attempted to hide him from her husband. He'd laugh at the thought if he had the strength to take another breath.  
  
He didn't.  
  
So he let himself fall on the ground and after a couple of seconds, the world turned black.  
  


  
  


~~

  
  


The night had been quiet. Not quiet with the sense of silent and suffocating, but quiet with the sense of peaceful and pleasant. It was pleasant, yes. Geralt would admit it himself as he was polishing his sword and listening to the sound of the crackling fire, the low melody of the lute strings and a soft voice that accompanied the song of the cicadas. He liked those nights. They made him feel warm, established a feeling of certainty on his chest. Soothed him.  
  
He knew how those nights usually went. Jaskier would compose a bit more, would sing a few tunes, then yawn and set the lute aside. He didn't go to sleep right after, those nights. Instead, he stayed up later than usual, sitting beside Geralt on a log and talking, and sometimes Geralt would talk too to or respond to his questions, with a good amount of words if he was in a good mood. If he was not, Jaskier wouldn't mind, he would either keep rambling or gaze at the stars, and he didn't mind being silent either, because silence was fluent too sometimes.  
  
So he stayed. Geralt didn't understand why most of the time, he knew he was not the best company or a person of interest. Still, it seemed to him Jaskier's body was emanating more warmth than usual on those nights, and he thought that maybe, maybe Jaskier felt safe like this. Safe and content and… and something else he couldn't quite define, but he was not unfamiliar to it.  
  
It had been one of those nights. Or he hoped that it had. The fire was still crackling, Jaskier was still singing and composing, he was still beside him. Except now he sat a bit further than usual. And Geralt's movements were gentler than usually as he cleaned his sword so that his elbow didn't bump on the bard. He still felt warm, still certain. Yet something he could only describe as fear lurked in a corner of his mind, fear of doing any wrong move, as if he ever had before. That and the knowledge that even if he wouldn't do any wrong move, Jaskier couldn't do any right one either. Because it would burn.  
  
It'd been four days.  
  
Still, Jaskier was sitting beside him and, as he predicted, he'd placed the lute aside and stared at him.  
  
Wait.  
  
He had not predicted that.  
  
Jaskier was staring and, as he saw with the corner of his eye, he was almost smiling. It was a question, it should be. Why else would he be staring?  
  
"Go on."  
  
It should be a question. Yet Jaskier chuckled and shook his head.  
  
"Oh, no, it's nothing, I just," he gestured at the sword in Geralt's hand, "I love the way you tend to your sword, it's like…" He squinted slightly and pursed his lips. "Like it's a human."  
  
Geralt would stop moving the moment he realized the bard's scent had an almost bittersweet taste if he didn't know how to control himself. Instead, he hummed and kept polishing the blade, although he was sure it was now clean as the surface of a river. Then he felt something close to his face and turned his head abruptly, only to see the bard jerking back and his hand hovering near his face before lowering slowly. Jaskier cleared his throat.  
  
"Oh, fuck that was close," he laughed nervously and rubbed his hands together. "Sorry, got carried away… Really, Geralt, I can talk to you without you looking but I need at least to be able to see your face, not behind all your flowy hair hiding it."  
  
His fingers were twitching. Geralt raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. He was not in a good mood admittedly. Moreover, he wasn't quite sure Jaskier's problem was seeing his face. The bard was a good liar, but he'd grown familiar with his scent every time he lied. He was a good liar, but not to him.  
  
"You don't like touching things, do you?" Geralt remained silent and could now make out every constellation mirrored on the blade of the sword. Jaskier preferred to look straight at the night sky. "I mean, there's a lot of stuff nice to the touch, there's grass, flower petals, clean sheets, cloth fabrics, even human skin and not just the wrinkled monsters you decapitate…" He made a pensive grimace and then shrugged. "No, you don't like touching."  
  
Honestly, even if Geralt was in a good mood, he wouldn't know how to answer. He felt the previous fear growing inside him, but this time it was probably fear for what came next. This time he could predict nothing. He refused to acknowledge the feeling, he just knew it existed. It was absurd. What more could Jaskier say?  
  
"Except for your stuff." Now he could feel Jaskier's gaze turned on him and he would say that pair of blue eyes fixed on him gave him a vague hint of the burns on the bard's skin. Jaskier smirked. "Right?"  
  
He raised his head sharply. "Go to sleep, Jaskier."  
  
He saw the smile on his face fainting and a part of him almost whined at the sight. Another part of him decided to work better with words when this was over. Yet somehow, the dominant part of the three guessed it would be for the best if he lowered his head to look indifferent, and so he did. He heard Jaskier huffing and then standing up, heading to the bedroll. His own heart scoffed at him.  
  
The cicadas kept singing.

  
  


~~

  
  


_Jaskier?  
  
Hey, Jask, open your eyes.  
  
Jaskier.  
  
Jaskier!_  
  
He flounced, made a sound similar to a sob and cracked his eyes open, the sound of his name still echoing in his ears. The rays of the sun coming through the foliage of the trees blinded him and he squinted to make out the figure kneeled beside him.  
  
"What?" His voice resembled more to a croak and he felt his throat dry as a desert. He raised himself to a sitting position and then, _oh fuck, that's what_ , and the memory of last night hit him as hard as the pain returning to his body. He groaned.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
For some reason, he already knew the answer. "Of course, I'm okay, everything is okay, why…" He trailed off as he raised his hand to rub his eyes and, except for the fact that it was dirtier than he remembered, he felt hot tears wetting his fingertips. He frowned.  
  
"Jaskier."  
  
Until now he hadn't questioned the voice talking to him. He should have, firstly because that voice rarely talked to him out of its own initiative and secondly, he felt he had a suspicious amount of time to actually hear it. He shook his head, blinked to clear his vision and looked at the figure in front of him. His heart skipped a beat.  
  
"Geralt, you're awake!" He would have hugged him, he would, because he found his body urging to crawl to him, but then he kept himself back. At least, at least. "You've healed? You should have, I took care of the wound as best as I could, that thing's teeth were fucking huge–"  
  
"Jaskier, stop."  
  
He paused, maybe for the first time after being told to, stared at him, realized Geralt stared back. He thanked the mud covering his face that hid his blush. Then he remembered.  
  
Took a look at himself.  
  
Oh. He was covered in mud from tip to toes.  
  
He shook his head, tried to stand on his feet, swayed and leaned on a tree. His thoughts were like a skein he struggled to untangle, yet he seemed to have no result. He panted. "There's a stream nearby, I think we could both help a wash."  
  
"Jaskier, dammit, look at me!"  
  
That was a lot of times for Geralt to call his name. He turned to him, snorted in confusion. Geralt stood up in front of him, hissing slightly. Then came closer. Jaskier could swear his eyes were brighter than the sun.  
  
"What have you done?"  
  
What had he done?  
  
He swallowed, looked at his hand. It was burning red and, _oh, it still hurt_. His eyes darted to Geralt again and this time, he shrunk to himself. On instinct. But he did. "I carried you."  
  
"Fuck, Jaskier."  
  
Geralt stepped back, raised his eyes to the sky in distress and then looked back at the bard. He didn't speak. Yet Jaskier was no fool when it came to Geralt. He knew how to decipher every shade of darkness in those golden eyes. And that shade resembled desperation and worry and… sadness.  
  
His mind blanked suddenly, as if he was hit by thunder. No, he didn't like this. Didn't like that shade. And now it was for him? He bit his lips, lowered his head. He could hear his heart thumping inside his chest. He'd done nothing wrong, after all. Just carried him.  
  
It's not like he was not supposed to.  
  
He nodded, mostly to himself.  
  
"I… I'll go clean myself… So I can apply the salve."  
  
He made a step, then two, and then pain overwhelmed him again and he stumbled, collapsed, put his hands forward so as not to hit the ground. Only that his hands didn't hit the ground either, and he suddenly found himself caught by strong arms, and froze. He looked at Geralt right above him, saw his eyes wide open with fear.  
  
That was it.  
  
The wrong move.  
  
He jerked backwards, pushed himself away from the witcher, gasped. Then stopped again in his tracks. Because he felt pain, yes. But it was the same as before. And it didn't burn. He raised his head, slowly, as though afraid.  
  
"Geralt?"  
  
Geralt's hands lingered on the air but he still didn't lower them and suddenly, Jaskier saw the dark shade in his eyes dissolving. His heart skipped a beat. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, and trembling, he raised his hand too, reached for Geralt's but didn't hold it, just let their fingertips brush. And it was warm, yes, but warm just like he imagined it. It didn't burn.  
  
The right move.  
  
He let out a sob.  
  
Then, out of breath, thinking none of it, he stumbled forwards again and wrapped his arms around Geralt, and for a moment he regretted it. It was Geralt after all. But then he let his shoulders relax as he felt strong arms coming up his back too. And he knew, gods, he knew, he was _sure_ he heard Geralt laughing. And he laughed too, loudly, as if to release a cry he held back for so, so long. And then hid his face in the witcher's shoulder and cried, and cried, and he didn't give a damn about the pain now because it was over, and he was still with Geralt, yes, but he was touching him, he was _hugging_ him, and Geralt hugged back. Over, it was over.  
  
It was over as they looked into each other's eyes, it was over as Geralt felt soft, hesitant lips against his and _realized_ , and didn't resist for a second, it was over as Jaskier felt him kissing back and _oh_ , and he gave in to the kiss. It was over. And still just the beginning.

  
  


~~

  
  


"I should be cursed more often if you're going to tend to me like that afterwards," Jaskier's last word was muffled into a yawn and he laughed as he heard Geralt grunting behind him.  
  
"Don't you dare."  
  
The stream had been cold, yet it was perfect for such a warm day. At least, it had washed the mud and blood off their bodies and its coolness made the moment they should step out a tough one for Jaskier. But he couldn't complain anymore. The burns were still there, yes, covering the whole right side of his body and some of the left in red, and they hurt, and it would take a good amount of salve and another week to fade away from his skin. Yet he was okay now and if his imagination didn't fail him, he could say that he felt his body healing more and more every time Geralt's hand massaged the salve on his shoulders right after he'd placed a soft kiss on each mark.  
  
Rough fingers traced the nape of his neck to make their way next down his chest and a hand rested above his heart. He shivered.  
  
"I'm done." Geralt knew his voice was soft and maybe it had been a long time since he himself had heard it that way, but he didn't try to change it. Instead, he rested his back on the tree behind him and pulled Jaskier with him, so that the bard's head was placed on his shoulder. He smiled at the pleased hum he made and pressed his lips against his temple. "You're too stubborn for your own good."  
  
Jaskier gasped dramatically and looked at him, and Geralt knew that the love filling his cornflower-blue eyes was the same and impossibly deep as it always had been, only that he was a fool.  
  
"Says the man who buries his feelings so deep he's afraid to let them loose." He giggled at the roll of Geralt's eyes and raised his hand to cup the witcher's face.  
  
Geralt leaned into the touch, placed a kiss on the inside of his wrist. Then snorted. "Thank you." It was not enough, the prickles of guilt in his heart told him it was not enough. He was the one to always pick the wrong words after all. "And I'm sorry for–"  
  
"Oh, there's nothing to be sorry for, you oaf," Jaskier gave him a light pat on the cheek that made him frown, but then his look softened again as he saw the bard smiling. "There's no regret when it comes to feelings." Jaskier shifted in his seat to have a better look at him and their eyes met. "But, please," shook his head, "don't think about going after that mage. We don't have to mess with him more."  
  
Geralt thought about it for a moment and then raised his eyebrow, a smile twitching on the corners of his lips. "No, we don't…" He shrugged as he saw Jaskier nodding in content. "Yennefer, on the other hand…"  
  
"Oh, you're impossible!"  
  
Jaskier's laughter was muffled into a kiss as Geralt pressed their lips together, and Jaskier tangled his hand in his hair as Geralt's fingers traced patterns across his chest.  
  
Touching him, feeling every inch of his skin on his fingertips, every touch burning and scorching, not with pain, not anymore, but with softness, and certainty, and love.  
  
And, gods, how long and how much they had craved that touch.  
  
_Touch me, Geralt. Please._  
  
His stuff. _His._  
  
Geralt decided _his_ was the best word choice he had ever done.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr as [wanderlust-t](https://wanderlust-t.tumblr.com/).


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